


More Than My Genes

by Anihan (Nakagami)



Series: I don't fit into these genes. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hippies, Epigenetics, Gen, Genetics, Questionable Scientific Practices, Real science being misused for plot purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:32:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/pseuds/Anihan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by Fanomy. </p>
<p>"In a world where [epigenetics were] discovered along with DNA in the fifties, John & Sherlock, a pair of pre-teens from two families that devoted themselves to the development of different characteristics, meet and fall in love.</p>
<p>May I have their story?"</p>
<p>You most certainly may.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than My Genes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanomy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanomy/gifts).



Science thunders onward by leaps and bounds. It is powerful. Addictive. It can be religion for those who buy into it, the unique experience summarized by the thought, "Wouldn't it be cool if..." If Man could walk on the moon. If dinosaurs were real. If global warming could be prevented. If perfume were edible. If liquid nitrogen made ice cream, got rid of warts, or lowered a soldier's body temperature fast enough to give them a fighting chance.

Wouldn't it be cool if we could save a life. Or change a life. Or _make_ life.

What would happen if we could plan our future, our children?

The Human Phenome Project, as it was colloquially called - however inaccurately, especially considering it was a study first done on dogs and monkeys back in the 60s - tried to do just that. Take two sets of genetics, whomever they may belong to, and instead of fighting over the code therein - that was left to the Human _Genome_ Project a few years later, launched in 1987 - the new battle was *after* conception over how each gene would be expressed. Believe, people! This isn't a marketing ploy, no, of course not! It is science!

They say loftily, as if the two never overlapped.  

But no, _yes,_ it is a science! Epigenetics is a field that isn't understood well by the general public, but then again, recent scientific experiences never are. Even the Renaissance delivered its fair share of skeptics and die-hard believers on every side of the same cause, but for epigenetics, at least, when fiction proved fact in America during the grey area in 1953 when Truman was no longer president but Eisenhower hadn't quite come to power, the new fad was to prove the cause correct again and again. Epigenetics Self Help books hit the streets by the dozens in the 60s and classes on the subject were available in the early 70s, and, really, it was no surprise to anyone when a stern voice came down from overhead, i.e. the government, and said that that sort of technology shouldn't be available in public quarters.

_At least,_ said the voice with a smarmy used car salesman smile, _not without a price tag._  

There were many people who couldn't afford that price, (i.e. anyone not filthy stinking rich,) so there were many, _many_ people who took those self-help books to heart. This movement of new parents banded together to teach and learn and preach the benefits - the necessity and long-term effects thereof! - of epigenetic care. After all, it's for the *children*.

And some people believed that. They really did. Some parents believed that their children would be happy, environmentally conscious, friendly and loving, peace-seeking revolutionists. Parentage did not matter as much as a calming, caring environment, and they would _give_ their children that world to grow up in. 

These people were called hippies.

One such person is a man by the name of Harold. Harold is also a scientist, by some definition of scientist - he owns a white lab coat, borrows the rest - and he will soon be a father. By some definition of *that* term, at least. He sits like a high school kid would perch at a breakfast bar, only half a butt cheek in contact with vinyl of his wheelie-stool. A sterile box sits cheerfully empty in front of him. He holds a pipette - no, actually, the pipette is held by tongs... that are manipulated by robots... that are animated by the computer commands that were given by the man who sits, perched, at the computer in the corner of the lab, manipulating that box.

In a minute, something is going to happen that will change his life. Hint: It's not LSD. Harold looks around as if an audience would come to life in order to witness this, and although one doesn't, the hope doesn't dim in his gaze. The pipette is lowered. Squeezed. And, at last, it deposits a single drop of the... mixture... on the waiting petri dish.

Harold pauses, perturbed at last. He can't quite remember whether the mixture is a suspension or a colloid.

Actually, he can't even remember the definition of either. There is a near overwhelming urge to grab a flashlight - a colloid would reflect the light, if _I_ remember right - and check, but the urge is quickly shoved to the side. 

The lack of knowledge is disturbing but only mildly so. High school chemistry was so very long ago and, really, it was a miracle he'd remembered this much in the first place.

Plenty of people got further than this without having taken chemistry at all, right? Wikipedia has saved the day yet again! Yeah, the man thinks gleefully, releasing another couple drops of the mixture for good luck. Apparently this combination of nutrients will make future treatments stick, and again, thank. You. Wiki. For that information. Might as well name it the godparent, he muses. Not like there'd be anyone else worthy of the title.

"Is it ready, Harold?" Caroline shifts uncomfortably on the exam table. The pseudo-scientist nods quickly and hurries to harness the contents of the petri dish in a long, blunt, hollow needle.

There is something that happens in the next few moments. Two somethings, in fact. Harold Watson believes he is helping his firstborn son into the world, and he's hoping for the sort of pale I-will-tan-but-not-burn sort of pin-up girl skin, combined with a fierce and commanding presence deserving of the Watson name. The first one is up to the luck of genetics, but he's boiled that last characteristic down to a strong-will (stubborn), die-hard loyalty (stubborn), and resolute bravery (stubbornness).  

So perhaps he hadn't quite thought this endeavor through.  

The thing about hack scientists in their basement, no matter how expensive their equipment, is that they're usually wrong about something. In this case, Harold is wrong about one thing in particular. When Harriet Watson is born seven months and twelve days later, she is, as her father made her, decidedly stubborn. But at least she tans well. 


End file.
